Attack of the Killer B's

So to get the ride going, Ángel yells out for the guys (and it's almost all guys) in Group A to join him. Nobody moves. This is a bad sign. It means that the riders who are capable of holding higher velocities (but who are too lazy, hungover, whatever, to do so) are going to slip down into Group B, which means that the rest of us who are barely holding onto our positions in Group B are gonna get creamed. Group B ends up with about 20 riders, which means that Group C, the technically slowest group, is gonna be full of people just messing about. So. Group B or Group C? I take my chances with the hammerheads. At least it'll get my heart rate up and I have a chance of looking like I gave it a shot.

I hang on until Tres Cantos. No, to be fair, I hang on until the Autónoma, and by the time we pass the Army base at El Goloso, my tongue is hanging out and I feel like barfing. I pushed too hard yesterday. There's no way I should have raced Buje and Antonio G. to the top of Marañosa (though I was very proud of my winning sprint at the top) and I really should take it a lot easier on Pilar, try riding with her even though she can't open her mouth any more without any of us wanting to scream. But yesterday, I needed to show my stuff. I wanted to show them that I'm not the dumb, fat guiri that they can all laugh at, that they'd better take me seriously or I will kick their asses from here to Finisterre.

And until I bonked on the fourth climb, I think they did.

By the time I reach the Foxá hotel in Tres Cantos, there's no seeing Group B for love or money. They are GONE. God only knows how far behind Group C have gotten; they're far more conservative when it comes to things like jumping red lights or letting the group get too far spread out. Whatever. I have intervals to do today anyway. Once past the main area of Tres Cantos, I push the gears up to a 54X14 and push, hard. I try invoking Amy Winehouse songs, the chattering monkeys, thoughts of Tom Boonen wearing nothing but leather trousers and a smart-ass smirk, anything to keep my mind off the fact that I feel like I'm blowing up. No pain, no gain, says Yago, but I'm not sure I'm gaining anything. All I can feel is the seething anger at being left so far behind.

Which makes it doubly irritating because I'm having trouble keeping my heart rate up. The whole point of doing intervals is to try to keep my heart rate at about 80% maximum for twenty minutes, but I can't; every time the terrain levels out or goes downhill, it plummets from about 154 to 128. I'm five minutes away from two climbs that would make it soar through the roof, but I can't hold on.

And then the snot comes. Oh my God, does it come. Someone turns on the faucet at the back of my sinuses and before I know it, I'm choking on it. I can't hork it out. I can't blow it out. But it's there, washing around but not loose enough to get out in one big loogie. I check behind me. I look in front of me. And, being left-handed, I blast it out onto my left arm warmer and feel relieved that I can breathe. Until four really good-looking guys pass me, muttering "Ánimoooo...." in the same tone of voice that one uses to berate the dog for peeing on the carpet.

But I accidentally hit one of the buttons on the new cycle computer, and bring up the altitude function. I'm riding up a 12% grade. I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or not.

I never get to the point of wondering why the hell I'm doing this. Not on the bike. Those thoughts tend to come when I'm exhausted and there's been no time to shop for food and the house is a disaster. But I do wonder how well I am doing it. I know that I'm climbing stronger, that (when I don't blow out) I can climb faster and go faster on flats. What I do wonder, though, is if this ever gets to the point where it gets effortless. Or just feels like it is. I want to be one of those guys who flies up hills and still has enough breath to talk about Real Madrid's season. I don't know how long that'll take. All I can think of when I get to the top of the 12% bit is that it doesn't feel like it's coming fast enough.

We take over one of the cafés in the plaza across from the church in Manzanares el Real; the B's have headed up to the to the Canto Cochino parking lot of the La Pedriza Park, which is packed with cyclists and cars. The C's roll in ten minutes later -- "Where the HELL did they shoot off to?" Pepe grumbles, shooting the hammerheads a poisonous look. The sun is shining, the protein and carbs are starting to settle down.

On the way out, I try joining the B's again, but their numbers have swelled, and instead of having a three-tier system, we've basically broken down into Those Who Go Like Hell and Those Who Take It Easy. I start in the second, chatting with Pepe, but those who can, do, and we get caught in a sub-group which should be Group B, but technically isn't.

And then another problem comes up, sort of. While I value the experience of riders like Pepe and Miguel, who have been riding for over forty years, I'm not sure how to gently extricate myself from being with them so that I can do my second interval. I'm supposed to do a second set of 20 minutes going like hell; but, blocked in with six older guys who are determined to show me the ropes, I end up in a paceline, straight behind Pepe and beside José Antonio. Knowing that these guys are all retired, I take extra care to do this well; me breaking a bone is nothing, but them breaking a bone would mean being laid up for months. But I can't break free, I can't do the Z4, and I don't know which is the bigger sin - not doing the exercise I was prescribed (which is, after all, meant to make me faster and stronger) or passing up on damn near 200 years of collected experience riding around me. I opt for the latter. I'm not in a position where I can turn down more help.

We head back into town going at a pretty good pace, about 28 kilometres an hour, and Pepe gives me some pointers about descending. Let's face it, I'm a lot more corpulent than a LOT of the guys I ride with, and since most of my weight sits from the waist down, it tends to drag me a lot faster and further than any guy who tips the scales like I do. Unless you can get around him safely, don't race him, says Pepe. If he comes down or slides out when he hits the curve, he's gonna take you with him.

And the gang collects again just inside the old town limits of Fuencarral town, where Miguel and a couple of the other guys are hanging out by the club car.

"How she'd do?" says Miguel.

"She's doin' all right," says Pepe, with a big smile on his face. "She's doing quite all right."

Well, they haven't chucked me out yet or demoted me. That's something in itself.